


nectar.

by girlspines



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: (mostly), Canon Compliant, Dissociation, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Writing Exercise, mutual support and chill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-20 19:05:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6021412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlspines/pseuds/girlspines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Korra realises she has a thing for girls in red lipstick.</p><p>Or, rather: one particular girl in red lipstick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> writer's block is awful holy shit SORRY I'VE BEEN GONE SO LONG
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> the concept isnt exactly original but i really just needed to get this off my chest. everything's been feeling so grey and uninspired for me lately and writing canon compliant korrasami has been really therapeutic. i think its the fact that they're so kind and gentle to one another in canon, so writing them feels like healing idk. uwu
> 
>  
> 
> you may notice that i suck at present tense. be kind with ur comments pls, i have no beta.

_There was a star riding through the clouds one night,_

_& I said to the star, 'Consume me'. _

_That was midsummer._

\-- Virginia Woolf

 

 

i.

_linger_

 

 

 

The first time Avatar Korra meets Asami Sato, she does not like her.

It's hard to pinpoint the exact reason why; maybe it's the fact that Asami Sato is hanging off Mako's arm, and there's a simpering kind of adoration in their faces whenever they look at one another that makes Korra want to either vomit or punch something.

Maybe it's the fact that Asami Sato greets Korra with a charming smile and a twinkle in her eye, like they've been friends for a long time, rather than total strangers. She takes Korra's hand in both her own, and her fingers are warm, decorated with gold rings that wink at Korra under the light of the chandeliers, as if in mockery of her. Maybe it's the fact that she actually _kisses_ Korra on the cheek the first time they meet, while still holding her hand; Korra's breath catches in her throat and she reels backwards, but Asami Sato does not seem to notice; Asami Sato, who has just caught her by surprise when she's _never_ caught by surprise. She's the Avatar, dammit.

Maybe it's the fact that Korra expects Asami Sato to be one thing; when instead Asami Sato turns out to be a whole manner of other things that she never really could have foreseen. Asami Sato is as charming as her smile, and her laugh rings like a clear, silver bell. She compliments Korra on her dress, saying it brings out her eyes, and even asks her where she got it. “Mako's told me _so_ much about you,” she says in Korra's ear.

To Korra, it sounds like she's making fun of her. The compliment takes her by surprise at first; then wariness catches up, and then, finally, defiance latches on. “Really? Because he hasn't told me anything about you at all.”

She storms off, flushed with vindictive satisfaction at the momentary look of surprise – and mingled hurt – that crosses Asami's perfectly made up face. Korra knows that she's being rude as hell, and deep down, she does feel a little sorry – but then Mako crosses her mind again, Mako and that stupid simpering look in his eyes – and she thinks, _Well,_ _serves him right_ _._

The red imprint of Asami Sato's lips is still visible on her cheek when she checks her reflection in the ladies' bathroom later on that night. Korra's never had a girl greet her like that before – although she knows it's a common gesture between women outside the Water Tribe. She swears under her breath as she tries to scrub it off using the abundance of fluffy white hand towels next to the sink – eventually, the colour fades, but her skin is a little raw from the effort, and as she leaves the bathroom she catches a whiff of flowery perfume in her hair. The scent is not exactly offensive – it's nice, actually, just like the rest of Asami, almost _too_ nice – but that's not the point.

It infuriates Korra that within five minutes of meeting her, Asami Sato has left her mark on her in more ways than one.

They don't talk again that night – but Korra's cheek burns, as if the lipstick mark is still there, the scent of Asami Sato's perfume lingers in her hair long after the party is over.

 

 

 

ii.

_irony_

 

 

 

It's ironic, really, because Asami Sato is her first female friend.

It's ironic, because Korra thought she was just a prissy rich girl, obsessed with makeup and boys and whatever else it was that prissy rich girls were meant to be obsessed with. Asami _is_ obsessed with makeup, but she also likes messing around with machinery and cars. Her hands, from a distance, _look_ soft and smooth and perfect, but when Asami takes her to the racetrack Korra notes with surprise the callouses on her fingers, the ridges and bumps from years of tinkering. Asami Sato also likes sports. She has a black belt in almost every martial arts discipline under the sun, and she keeps a box of Pro-Bending Collector Cards in her bedside cabinet. She knows the name of every member in the league, which team they belong to, the outcome of every match, every championship, every downfall, every scandal. She personally pushes for her father to sponsor the Fire Ferrets.

It's ironic, because Asami Sato is a non-bender, and Korra is the Avatar. Not that Korra has anything against non-benders – but she cannot imagine a life without bending. And for the first time in her life, she is afraid. It's hard to talk about why – even to Tenzin. If Amon takes her bending away, then who would she be?

Given the recent political unrest in the city, Asami could have been easily swayed by the anti-bending sentiments of the Equalist cause – but she is not. She welcomes Korra into her home with another kiss on the cheek and open arms. Korra, who knows what to expect now, awkwardly receives Asami's kiss by turning her jaw. Asami is, of course, wearing red lipstick – Korra starts to suspect that her makeup has to be tattooed on, it always looks so perfect – and she laughs as she pulls away. “Oops,” she says. “I have a bad habit of doing that. Sorry.”

She licks her finger and rubs at the lipstick smudge on Korra's cheek. Asami is indulgent in the way she interacts with people, Korra thinks; she touches you on the arm and leans in close whenever she talks to you, her eyes alive with green light and gold sparkle, she kisses you on the cheek ever so gracefully and her touches spread tingling warmth outwards like a network of invisible, delicate veins; Korra, who is so used to the cold that she can wear a sleeveless shirt in the middle of a Water Tribe winter, is slightly unnerved by the warmth that Asami Sato exudes.

(She is not flash-fire hot like Mako, dangerous and volatile, to be handled carefully at all times in case of burns, no.)

(She is the kind of warmth that makes Korra think of fireflies floating in the soft twilight of midsummer, gentle and pretty but with a molten core hidden within, a core that is secretly burning as fierce and eternal as the sun. No wonder so many men are drawn to her.)

It's ironic, because she's Mako's girlfriend, and Korra likes Mako, but the more time she spends with Asami, she realises that she likes Asami, too. It's wrong, all wrong: she thinks that she's _not meant_ to like Asami, because technically they're love rivals, and she's never had a female friend to hang out with before, and she knows exactly _zero_ about other girls and their inner workings. It's wrong, because hanging out with Asami feels so _natural_ , like Korra's known her forever; it's _wrong_ , because Asami is not what it says on the packet at all, and Korra, who is only seventeen and left the Water Tribe thinking that she knew exactly who she was and what she wanted from life, finds herself questioning all these things in the midst of the strange new world she's been thrust into.

 

 

 

iii.

_different kinds of beauty_

 

 

 

Korra's lost count of how many rooms the Sato mansion has. She _thinks_ she's somewhere on the third floor, but it's hard to tell; the house is so large its disorienting. Bolin and Mako are still splashing around in the indoor swimming pool downstairs; she can hear their laughter floating, ghost-like, through the hallway behind her.

She stands in the bathroom, examining the place on her cheek where Asami kissed her.

It makes her feel strange, the knowledge that she's had Asami's lips touch her skin. She knows it's just a meaningless thing that other women do to greet each other, but still, it makes her feel strange. The same lips that kiss Mako have also kissed her. And a thousand other boys, probably, before Mako.

Asami's finger has pretty much erased most of the mark – most of it. There's still red on Korra's cheekbone – red that's stubbornly clung to her, despite the swim in the pool, despite Korra's best attempts to get it off with waterbending. Korra rubs at it desperately with the flat of her fingers, but it does not budge.

A part of her almost does not want to erase the lipstick smudge from her skin. It's a pretty colour, plus, she likes to think it would piss Mako off, if he saw it there.

Standing next to the porcelain sink is a small black tube and a compact. Korra picks up the compact and pries it open – and is immediately enveloped by a fine white powder. She almost drops the compact in shock, but instead throws it hastily back onto the counter where she found it, coughing. Her eyes drift to the small black tube.

It has to be Asami's lipstick, she realises. Korra wonders if Asami was just in here, doing touch-ups. Leaning over the porcelain sink to gaze at herself in the mirror, mouth open, drawing slowly across the curve of her bottom lip. She'd get her lipstick perfect all in one go, Korra thinks. Asami Sato is one of those women whose beauty and charm is effortless, casual. But if Korra were to try doing the same, she'd only look ridiculous.

Even so, she picks up the lipstick.

Twists it open slowly. Watches the lipstick rise slowly out of the elegant black case, as red as blood. Korra stops there, staring down at the open tube like it's a crazed spider snake about to rear up and bite. Cosmetics are still a novelty in the Water Tribe, where women only paint their faces for ceremonial reasons – or, if they are men, going off to war. She raises it in front of her face, studying her reflection in the mirror, comparing the colour to her dark skin.

A part of her wonders if Asami kisses Mako with the lipstick on, or if she insists on taking it off beforehand. If Mako prefers for her to wear it when they're alone.

A part of her wonders what Asami looks like in those quiet private moments. Hair all messed up, falling into her face, lipstick smudged. Mascara running. Her dress slipping off her shoulders, pooling on the floor.

A part of her imagines –

(for a brief moment)

– how Asami would kiss, like _really_ kiss if Korra were Mako, if she actually meant it. Her mouth hot and heavy on her own; tongues flicking against teeth, biting down, pulling, breathing in, _devouring –_ trailing her lipsticked mouth down Korra's throat, leaving her red marks in her wake – to see that normally perfect lipstick smear and smudge across porcelain skin like bloodstains, strands of black hair catching on her swollen mouth, the heat in her hands turning intense, blinding, unbearable –

“That colour would really suit you. Want to try it on?”

Asami's voice pulls her out of her reverie; Korra jumps and her knee cracks against the sink. She bites back a cry of pain and turns to smile weakly at her friend. “Asami!” she says. Hyper aware that she's still holding the lipstick tube in her hand. “I'm sorry – I didn't mean to –”

Asami just laughs. She looks radiant, her hair hanging over one shoulder in a glistening trail, a white shirt pulled loosely over her bathing suit. “It's okay,” she says, leaning against the door frame. “I'm serious, though. Red lipstick would look great on your skin tone.”

 _It's Mako,_ Korra realises. _Mako's the reason she looks so happy, like she's glowing from within._

For some reason, this deflates her, makes her feel small – _unworthy._

“You're kidding, right?” she says, incredulously.

“Korra, it's just makeup,” says Asami. “It washes off.”

Korra's hand drifts automatically to her cheek. “All this – all this _girl stuff_ ,” she mutters. “It's all so foreign to me. We can't even buy lipstick in the Southern Water Tribe. The White Lotus never approved of it –” Her hand moves to the back of her neck, rubbing the skin there anxiously. “And, um, I think I'd look kind of stupid in it, so –”

“How do you know, if you've never even tried?” Asami cocks her head to one side, her smile widening. “Here, give it to me.”

She beckons to Korra, who swallows and holds out the lipstick. Asami rummages around in the bathroom cabinet and pulls out a small makeup brush. Then she makes Korra sit on the rim of the clawed bathtub while she swipes the lipstick onto the brush, then applies it to the centre of Korra's lips. Her other hand grips the top of Korra's shoulder.

“ _Every_ woman needs a good red lipstick in her life,” says Asami softly. Her breath tickles Korra's ear when she speaks. She lifts her hand from Korra's shoulder and puts it under her chin, moving her face up to the light. “And every man, too, if they're into that. Makeup has no gender.”

Korra giggles. “Oh, great. For some reason I'm imagining Mako and Bolin wearing lipstick now.”

“Keep your head tilted up,” Asami reminds her. “Hmm, Mako in lipstick. Is it weird that I find that image more attractive than actual Mako?”

“A little. Whatever you're into, I guess.”

“I'm into a lot of things.” Asami's tongue is poking out of the corner of her mouth, eyebrows scrunched up as she moves the brush over Korra's upper lip. The lipstick has a funny waxy vanilla taste that reminds Korra of cakes. “I like my men to be stronger and taller than me, but I also like some androgyny, too. I don't know. Guys who aren't intimidated by feminine things are rare to find these days.” She pauses, then that shy, radiant smile returns. “Mako doesn't try to tell me how I should present myself. That's why I like him.”

Korra tries to smile back, but it's surprisingly difficult in this position, with Asami's hand on her chin and her pinkie finger resting next to her mouth. All she can do is grimace. “Guys who are intimidated by you aren't worth your time anyway.”

“It took me a while to realise that.” Asami lets go of Korra's chin and takes a step back, surveying her work with a well-trained eye. “I remember being told in engineering school that I didn't look like an engineer because I wore makeup everyday. One of my male classmates actually mistook me for the _receptionist_ at the university. The look on his face when I told him I was studying there!”

“Is that why you wear it? Just to prove them wrong?”

“Partly. There are other reasons.”

“Like what? Sorry if I'm being annoying, but this is all new territory to me –”

“You're not annoying,” says Asami. “I think for some people – some women especially – makeup is this hugely personal thing. It's not just to impress guys, you know – although some women do wear it for that reason, and that's okay.” She gazes at Korra's lips critically, thinking. “You know how the Kyoshi Warriors paint their faces for battle? It's like that for me, too. War paint.”

When Korra just looks at her blankly, she elaborates.

“Every time I wear makeup – lipstick, especially – I feel so much more confident. Like I can take on the world.”

Korra shakes her head. “I don't get it. You've literally got it all – the looks, the brains, the boyfriend, you can fight, you can invent, you can fly an _airplane –_ ” she's rambling now, ticking all of Asami's positive traits off on her fingers, traits that have been a constant source of self-loathing and jealousy for months now.

“So what? Korra, you're beautiful, too,” interrupts Asami with a frown. “And you're smart. And brave. And funny. _And_ you're the Avatar! I don't even compare.”

“No, I'm not. I can't even airbend. I'm –” _Unworthy,_ Korra wants to say. _Weak._ For a moment there she almost spills these doubts to Asami; doubts that have been crawling their way up her throat ever since she went to that first Equalist rally with Mako, doubt that has slowly, steadily solidified into cold fear – fear that she is unworthy of Avatar Aang's legacy and, worst of all, _weak._ For a moment there Korra wants to tell Asami that this is the first time in her life that she's felt this way; she never used to be afraid of anything. And she always won.

She almost says all this and more, (because she knows that Asami will listen, because she's too nice for her own good, and neither Korra or Mako deserve her), but she does not. Instead, she just shakes her head again and continues, “Whatever. And I'm not beautiful. Not like you. You can put as much lipstick as you want on me, it'd still look wrong.”

“There are different kinds of beauty, Korra.” Asami takes her hand and directs her over to the bathroom mirror so she can see her reflection. Korra's mouth drops open. She's painted like one of those girls she sees on billboards and magazines downtown. Her lips are as red as Asami's – red and pouty and perfect. She's never given much thought about her own appearance – well, except her muscles, which she's exceptionally proud of – and she certainly never gave much thought to the possibility that she could be pretty. She doesn't know how Asami's done it, but the lipstick looks _good._ Better than she thought it was going to look, at least.

Asami smiles at her in the mirror, like she can tell what Korra's thinking. “The whole point of makeup isn't to change who you are – only to bring out what you already have. I believe everybody is beautiful in one way or another. Society tries to put us all in one box – tells us that we have to look a certain way in order to be worth anything, but I disagree. It's just self expression.”

Korra screws up her lipsticked mouth and flexes her biceps experimentally at her reflection. It's a bizarre image; the lipstick feels warm and moist on her mouth and she can taste that waxy cake taste in the back of her throat (she probably swallowed some of it by accident). “Different kinds of beauty, huh?”

“You can be strong physically and still be beautiful. The two aren't mutually exclusive.” Asami waves a hand at her own face. “You know, in the Fire Nation,  _this_ is not considered very beautiful at all. I have a narrow face and thin neck, and that's meant to be a sign of weak upbringing.”

Korra gapes at her. “No way! But you _are_ beautiful, I don't believe that –”

Asami smiles again. “You're really sweet,” she says. “It's all a matter of perspective. Beauty is subjective, dependent on different cultural expectations – it doesn't really mean anything.”

“Yeah, that's easy for _you_ to say. I wonder what they'd think of  _my_ neck in the Fire Nation.”

“You are beautiful, Korra. You are,” Asami insists. “There's beauty in your strength, your passion, your drive, your power. The first time I saw you in the pro-bending ring, I was mesmerised. Ever since my mother died I've studied the scientific principles of bending, but I never considered it to be an art form until I met you.”

“Uh - thanks?” The earnestness in Asami's voice is another surprise - like she actually _believes_ what she's saying. Again, Korra doesn't really know how to react; she tries to ignore the weird tightening in her chest at Asami's words, the fact that her heart seems to have swelled half a size larger. It's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to her, but she doesn't dare voice that thought out loud.

They spend about ten minutes removing the lipstick with makeup wipes, and when they walk back downstairs Asami slips her arm through Korra's elbow, linking them together. Korra is taken aback – then she realises that this is yet another thing that women in Republic City must do with one another. It's definitely something she's going to have to get used to.

 

 

 

iv.

_spook_

 

 

 

She spends three years floating in freefall.

Floating, spinning, caught in the endless loop of Zaheer suffocating her from the inside out.

She should have died.

She _is_ dead.

At least, that's what it feels like:

Like she's been struck by lightning. Every molecule in her body has been blown apart. Rearranged. Scattered into the wind. Sent tumbling into the void like stars across the night sky.

Now she is floating, a shadow of her former self, trying to pick up the pieces. She haunts the outskirts of Earth Kingdom townships. The shifting sands of the Si Wong Desert. The volcanic regions of the Fire Nation. Occasionally she catches whispers on the wind: echoes of her former life. The Air Nomads' restorative efforts in the Earth Kingdom. Kuvira, the Great Uniter. _Saviour._ The Avatar's whereabouts are unknown. _Unworthy._ Asami's stopped sending her letters. She's moved on. The world has moved on. Korra is left behind, floating, drifting further and further away.

“You know, you look very familiar.” The Earth Kingdom man scratches his head, frowning as he peers down at her bruised, bleeding face. The pain is the only thing keeping her tethered; a reminder that she is blood and bone and real human flesh _._ Sometimes the realisation is a horrific thing. “Yeah, you kinda look like that Avatar girl. Whatever happened to her, anyway?”

“I wouldn't know.” Korra swings her bag over her shoulder as she leaves, coins jangling in her pocket. They're pity winnings, the only thing she's good for now.

_What happened to you?_

She leaves the fighting pit the same way she arrived: like a ghost, blown in by a gust of wind then blown out again, as invisible as a lost soul in the night. Touch her: she is not here. Your hand goes straight through her cheek. She is a heartbeat, a hitch of breath, rushing blood and bruised, taped knuckles and scarred wrists, but that's all there is. You think she has a familiar face, like the Avatar from all those stories you heard as a kid, the next Avatar is supposed to be a Water Tribe girl and this girl at the fighting pits looks Water Tribe but she's in Earth Kingdom clothing – but then the next day comes and you forget she was even here and you forget the stories, too.

*

The Fire Nation, they say, was built on top of one enormous extinct volcano.

It's part of an old legend, one from the days where dragons ruled the skies.

Nowadays the Fire Nation is much more modernised. Like Republic City, its major citadel is a shining network of skyscrapers and rail networks. Billboards displaying all the latest 'movers' assault passers-by from every corner. Korra sees advertisements for cosmetics, too, and it makes her think of Asami.

Everything makes her think of Asami these days.

Especially here, in the capital. Fire Nation women have the same black hair, the same pale skin. They're all tall and long-legged. Korra sees Asami in a thousand different faces, a thousand different voices. But then they turn around and that's when she sees their eyes. Amber, not green. Amber, like Mako. Something nagging at her; more echoes from the past. Calling to her. _Come home._ She sees a billboard advertising red lipstick. It seems every woman in the Fire Nation wears that same colour. Korra remembers the day in Asami's bathroom, playing with her makeup. Asami called her beautiful that day. She has not felt beautiful in a long time. _Come home come home come home._

*

The first dragons came from a volcano. That's how the story goes.

But Korra knows it's not just a story.

A part of her can feel it. It's been calling to her for a while now. Ever since she's entered the Fire Nation, she can feel it tugging at her sleeve, urging her the other way.

 _Raava?_ she whispers.

She leans down and rests her hand on the sand. The beaches in the islands are black as night. And the sand is warm, always warm. The strip of shoreline that Korra is standing on circles one of the most active volcanoes in the world. Fire paints the sky above her head in fiery slashes. No wonder they all think dragons were born here, she thinks. The earth trembles under her feet as the volcano roars and heaves endless rivers of lava from its mouth; it glows in red-hot spiderwebs over the cliff face, indescribably beautiful, terrible. If you lived in a place like this your whole life, then you'd believe dragons lived under the mountain, too.

The tug is there, and then it is gone.

The beach around her is a frenzy of life and colour. There's some kind of festival going on, something to do with the volcano. No one notices the young brown woman in Earth Kingdom clothes on her knees in the sand. For a split second, they see her eyes, like two chips of hard blue ice in the dark, and there's something there – recognition, perhaps – but then they keep walking, eager to continue with the night's celebrations. Korra averts her gaze.

The women here have the amber eyes of Fire Nation natives, but they aren't pale skinned like the women in the citadel. Instead, their skin is a deep, reddish brown. Their hair is black, coarse, grown past their hips. They wear gold jewels in their noses, in the centre of their foreheads, their bellybuttons, and around their biceps. And their lipstick is not red, but obsidian, the same colour as the sand under Korra's feet.

She sits on the beach and watches the troupe of fire dancers perform their routines under the light of a full moon. The heat from their firebending is intense, but she sits closer to the show than anyone else, shirt sticking to her back, her face awash with a flickering red glare. The dancer closest to her has been watching her all night. Korra feels that pull again, this time deep in her gut, and wonders.

She doesn't even realise she's walking into the middle of the group until someone screams.

“Hey, watch where you're going! I almost burned your face off!”

The dancer's hands are on fire. It makes her amber eyes look red. Red, the colour of – what? Korra can't remember.

“Sorry,” she says. “I thought you were someone else.”

She turns on her heel and starts to walk off, her head spinning. Then, suddenly, she's pulled back.

“Wait,” the dancer says.

*

In a boathouse by the pier, the dancer shows Korra the scars that lace her body. She twists around so that Korra can trace her fingers slowly over them. The girl does not say how she got them, but Korra understands. Scars talk; they become people. Korra's been living her scars for the last three years. The scars on the dancer's body are deep and vicious and ragged around the edges, awful to look at, and achingly familiar.

Korra sits cross-legged on the bed, facing the naked expanse of the girl's mutilated back. Her fingers run up the length of one scar, which curves like a silver smile in the dim light. (It looks like a lightning strike). Korra knows she should feel sick, and sad, but she does not. She is hollow. The wind whispers through the curtains and rattles at her lonely bones. No one home. “I want to touch you,” the dancer sighs. “Please.”

She turns around and places her hands on Korra's breasts. Korra is still fully dressed; she sits poker-straight as the girl kisses her lips, kisses the hollow of her neck. She does not return the kisses, and she does not move her hands from the scars on the girl's back. This wrong, some distant part of her insists, but she cannot remember why. Her lipstick leaves black smudges on her neck. That's wrong, too. Her lips are strong, unyielding, forceful; her hands on Korra's breasts are rough, all take, take, take. Interpreting Korra's silence as consent, the dancer lifts her shirt over her head, and pushes her down onto the bed, hunger in her eyes.

It's been a long time since Korra's been kissed – and never has she been kissed like this. Mako's kisses were messy and sloppy, with too much tongue, and Korra never had the heart to direct him (they would've ended up fighting about it; she's simply too blunt, too tactless, and his ego could never handle it). This girl kisses her with practised skill, her hands moving like they've done this a thousand times before. There's only one way this can end – but Korra does not stop to think if she's ready for it. (Or if she even _wants_ it).

“You're so beautiful,” the dancer says. She's straddling Korra with her legs, hair tumbling over her shoulders, wild and desperate. Her black lipstick is smudged, and it looks like a bruise. She's not Asami. Asami is far, far away. And then Korra realises why this feels so wrong. _Asami._ How could she have forgotten? It's too late, though. Three years too late.

Her breath seems to freeze in her chest, and a bolt of pain shoots through her abdomen, causing her to squeeze her eyes shut in agony. She can't breathe. Her hands scrabble on the bedsheets, grasping for purchase. The girl's hungry teeth on her neck. _No._ Her back arches. There is a low buzzing in her ears. She's falling, falling, dying again. Zaheer is laughing –

Korra opens her eyes and screams.

Hovering above her is an apparition wrapped in chains, with glowing white eyes. It pins her to the bed, snaking the chains around her arms so she can't move. The scars on her wrists burn white hot. The buzzing in her ears rises to a dull shriek. She struggles to breathe, but it's like her lungs are clogged with sand. “N – _NO_!” she forces out.

A blast of air shoots from her fist, hitting the spook square in the face. There is the sound of shattering wood as it flies off the bed. Korra does not stop to look where it went. She staggers off the bed, sobbing in horror, kicking at the sheets that have twisted around her ankles like chains. The door is torn off its hinges by another gust of air.

Her feet slap heavily at the surface of the pier. She doesn't know where she is going. Only that she has to get away. It's too hot. Everything here is too hot. Water. She needs water.

She reaches the end of the pier and dives, plunging into the sea.

Darkness. Silence. Cold. Korra opens her mouth and screams. All her fear, all her fury, all her grief pours from her mouth in a soundless stream of bubbles. The silence is deafening. She sinks to the bottom and screams until her throat is red raw.

She is perfectly happy to drown down here, but her stubbornness gets the better of her. It's the only thing that keeps her going, really. The world can grind her between its teeth and spit her out as many times as it likes; she will still cling to life like a particularly sharp rose thorn.

She doesn't know what saves her – the tide or some psychic form of waterbending (it is a full moon, after all) – but eventually she washes up on the beach, thrashing, gasping for air.

She lays there, hugging her legs to her chest, coughing up bile. Tears burn in her eyes and she doesn't want to turn around – she's terrified of seeing the ghostly apparition washed up next to her, a chain wrapped around its neck. They are one and the same, conjoined by her trauma like some twisted umbilical cord, and she's discovered that she cannot run without it following her, wherever she goes.

_Don't look. Don't look._

But she does anyway; she cannot help it. They are one and the same, blood sisters connected by the chains.

The beach is utterly empty.

The boathouse is dark and quiet; no lights flicker in the windows. Korra blinks and wipes her eyes. No – the boathouse is not just dark – it is abandoned. In fact, it appears to have been deserted for years. The roof sags to one side; half of it has caved in. The dark windows look like the eyes of a dead man, sprouting out of the cliff to peer questioningly down at her, as if to ask, _who are you? What have you become?_

Her neck itches and burns. She rakes her nails over the places where the dancer – or the chained apparition – kissed her with black lipstick, desperately rubbing the phantom sensations away. She shudders all over, again and again. It feels like there are a thousand tiny bugs scuttling over the places those ghost lips touched, scratching and biting at her. She does not know if the whole thing was another hallucination – but if she were to look in a mirror now and see lipstick smudges on her face, it would drive her to lunacy in the blink of an eye.

Korra rolls over and places a hand on the sand. The volcano above her head is not a hallucination – that much, at least, is real. She reaches out for it and feels its realness in her fingers, using it as a lifeline to anchor herself. There is a heartbeat here, a life force. It pours from the volcano like molten blood; it burns ten thousand degrees hotter than any firebending. She is afraid of being consumed, but she is also drawn to that heat. And there is something else – an indistinct buzzing in her ears, like the high whine of a mosquito.

( _unworthy_ )

She cannot see it, but she knows the chained apparition is close by. It has followed her from the boathouse.

She can feel it closing in, rushing towards her across the waves on invisible wings; can hear the eerie death rattle of the chains. The darkness around her suddenly seems much more solid, alive, reaching out with eager clutching hands –

There are things waiting in that darkness. Things that she only sees in her worst nightmares.

“Move,” Korra rasps.

Her body is paralysed. It feels like she's encased in a coffin of sand. It sticks to her legs, pulling her down, down, down. Falling again.

She stares at the big toe of her right foot. Pictures it moving. Pictures her legs bringing her whole body upright, planting her feet on the ground in one defiant last stand against the monsters in her mind. She can do it. She taught herself to walk again. She'll walk, she'll run, she'll bend, move mountains with her bare hands – and one day she'll fly. It's just a matter of taking the first step.

“ _Move_.”

In the end she manages to half-walk, half-stumble towards the volcano, drawn to that burning light which keeps the night terrors at bay.

 

 

 

v.

_like clockwork_

 

 

 

Three years away have changed everything. At the same time, it's changed nothing at all.

Asami's changed her hair. It's longer, and she's tied into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck. Her bangs are the same, though: that lock of hair still falls past her left ear, forever refusing to flow with the rest of her hair.

Mako is taller than he was somehow. Bigger. He's more serious, too. (If that's even possible). He looks uncomfortable in the bodyguard uniform Chief Beifong has assigned to him. He was in his element as a detective, and now he's being forced to babysit a spoiled prince.

Bolin doesn't join them for their reunion; his absence is a missing puzzle piece, and a strange sadness takes its place in Korra's heart where his smile and laugh used to be. She was looking forward to seeing him, but accepts that he's got his own business to attend to. Prince Wu is no substitute; Korra is annoyed within two seconds of meeting him, offended within five, pissed off by ten.

Despite these differences, the separate players of Team Avatar click back into place with relative ease, almost like clockwork. Wu is kidnapped, Korra and Mako argue, Asami drives, and eventually they save the day. They even joke about it afterwards: _just like old times_ , they agree.

To Korra, this comes as a huge relief. She was afraid that her friends would change so much – just as much as she's changed – during the last three years that they were unrecognisable, as would their friendship. But there are little things, most of them to do with Asami. For some reason she's the only one Korra has eyes for that day.

They're in the garden of the Sato estate, watching Prince Wu play croquet with Grandma Yin. Even Mako is smiling despite himself. There's iced tea being handed around in pitchers, and the sun hangs low in the sky, crickets singing in the trees. Asami and Korra don't join the game. They sit together around the pond, throwing bread to a group of turtleducks in the shallows. Korra's got her boots off, toes skimming the surface of the water. Her eyes are closed, but she doesn't need to seismic bend to know that Asami's moved closer to her so that their shoulders are nearly touching, their hands on the grass only a hair's breadth apart.

The disobedient lock of hair, that's a piece of the old Asami Korra remembers, a piece she took with her to the Southern Water Tribe; she's still taller than Korra, yes, that's good, that's _right_. Korra wants to tell Asami this, just like she wants to tell Asami how much she missed her, and how funny it is that you never realise how much you miss someone until they're missing from you, but it's so quiet in the garden, and she feels so peaceful, and Asami's so warm next to her, that she just lets herself be lost in this wonderful merging of past and present. The smell of Asami's shampoo, the softness of her hair, the _red lipstick –_ three years, and she still wears the same red lipstick! Korra remembers the way Asami kissed her on the cheek in the restaurant; how she'd laughed and wiped Korra's face with the pad of her thumb afterwards, _just like old times_ , because Asami Sato never does things in half-measures and she never holds grudges (even though Asami Sato knows more about betrayal and heartbreak than all of them combined).

Three years have changed nothing and everything at the same time. Korra runs her hair restlessly through her newly shorn bangs, thinking of Asami's throwaway compliment and how it seemed to light her up inside – and this is the disconnect between the old Asami and the new Asami, the point where they differ – the old Asami, she'd never made Korra blush. Korra has always been aware of her friend's beauty – a beauty that made her feel insecure and jealous, once upon a time. When she was seventeen and all she wanted was for Mako to notice her. Now it's a beauty that she notices in a different light – a change so subtle, so minuscule, like tiny ripples in a pond. Steadily growing into something larger.

Korra opens her eyes and Asami's looking at her with a secret smile curving on her red mouth. Her eyes are bright, electric in the night. Korra is dazzled by the greenness of them.

It's ironic, she thinks, that once they both vied for the attentions of one man and now here they are, sitting together on the edge of Asami's garden with their hands almost touching and the rest of the world tuned out around them; there's a lot of things Korra wants to say, like _I'm sorry_ , or _thankyou_ , or, _what is really going on between us?_ But she's afraid, too, of so many things: of ruining the moment, afraid that it's a hallucination again, afraid of waking up with the ghost of Asami's lips on her cheek. She's so weak. All she wants to do is hold Asami's hand; to feel reassured that yes, this is real, and no, you won't ever wake up alone again.

(She pictures herself touching Asami the same way she pictured herself walking – starting off with a minute curl of her thumb, inching sideways to find the tip of Asami's thumb, or maybe her pinkie finger, curling over the top of her hand and pulling it close, never letting go. She's promised herself she'll do this – one day, she'll fly.)

“Asami,” she begins. “If you're mad at me, then it's –”

“I'm not mad,” says Asami quickly.

“What I said about your father,” Korra lowers her voice. “That was out of line. I'm sorry.”

“You were worried about me.” Asami shrugs her shoulders. “It's completely understandable, after what he did.” She pauses, then says quietly, “I guess the reason I got so angry at you was because I was scared – that, you know, you could be right.”

“I trust your judgement,” Korra declares, after a moment. “You're the most noble person I know.”

Asami bows her head. “Some people would call that weakness,” she says. “I forgive. But I don't forget.”

Korra ponders this answer for a moment, then nods, satisfied. She told the truth – she trusts Asami implicitly, because Asami's suffered more than most, so she knows when to let people in and when to cut them out. She's so strong – strong in ways that the Avatar is not.

“I'm not mad, Korra,” Asami says, and then she reaches out and takes Korra's hand before Korra can move, and she runs her thumb back and forth over the side of Korra's thumb, a gesture that seems almost too intimate and too gentle – Korra shivers at the thought, shivers at Asami's touch. “You're here now, alive, breathing, talking, walking. That's enough for me.”

“I'm not going to leave again,” Korra says, and Asami doesn't answer, but her fingers remain locked around Korra's, and there's no fireworks, no big declarations of love, just Asami's hand on her own and the slight squeeze of her fingers, the heat of her palm, the thumb stroking Korra's knuckles, back and forth, the sound of her quiet breathing in the misty air, the gentle thrum of her heart.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was immensely difficult to write, but also incredibly gratifying/freeing at the same time
> 
> i'm sorry it got so angsty. I never intended it to turn out that way. Sometimes these things happen when you're writing tho – you might have a plan, but in the end, its always best to just go with whatever feels right. And, weirdly, I dont regret it? Like book 4 means so much to me in terms of mental illness/disability representation, I just ... yeah.
> 
> This was something that needed to be written. Not for you guys, but for me. It was painful at times – like pulling out a rotten tooth – but now it's out there and now hopefully the words can come easier.
> 
> Thanks for all your comments and lovely feedback. I primarily wrote this for my own benefit but i'm still glad some of you found meaning in it too.
> 
>  
> 
> Also just a headsup: this is the second and final part of this story, and there is a s-e-x scene at the end; it's not explicit, but it is certainly suggestive. I mean the story is rated M but I just thought i'd state that here just in case some of you are like me and have a squick when it comes to reading that stuff

vi.

_god light_

 

 

 

It's sometime early in the morning, which is too late for some people. Asami Sato can never really tell the difference. She goes to bed late and is a light sleeper. Two hours is usually enough. Her mind simply runs too fast for her to be able switch off completely at night.

She's in one of the guest rooms on Air Temple Island, standing with her arms stretched over her head. Gone is the elegant business attire she adorns her day self with; right now she's dressed in nothing but a white singlet and black leggings. She stretches her arms above her head, listening to the links in her spine crack. Then she bends over and touches her toes, spreading her legs further out. Her arms come down to her sides, and then she repeats the exercise, exhaling through her mouth. One day, before she visited her father in prison, she saw a group of waterbenders practising these moves in Avatar Korra Park. She was surprised to learn that there were nonbenders participating, too, and after a while, she decided to joined them. She's never been the spiritual type, but she likes it, this gentle pushing and pulling of her arms, breathing in through her core. It soothes the heat in her brain a little – everything is always so _loud_ in there, all the thoughts churning around and around like the little cogs and pulleys that make up her workbench. Asami Sato can never quite stop thinking, and these days it is more of a curse than a blessing.

('These days'; a phrase she seems to use a lot in her head. 'These days' – alternative title: 'after the poison').

She freezes when she hears footsteps. Someone's moving around just outside her door.

“Korra?” she calls softly.

She turns, just as her door creaks open slightly to reveal Korra's slanted profile. She's standing just past the threshold, as if hesitant to come inside; but her body is motionless, arms hanging loosely at her sides ( _she's so thin,_ Asami thinks, _so thin_ _so thin so thin_ ), mouth jutting open, jaw slack. Asami suddenly feels her mouth go dry. This is the third night in a row that Korra's sleepwalked from her room. Asami doesn't think she even _knows_ she's doing it. It scares her, because it's not the same as the nights directly following Zaheer's assault; nights where Korra would wake up screaming from the clutches of dread nightmares, hands holding her own throat, screaming that she can't breathe, screaming for Raava, _Raava._ Now, three years later, there are no more night terrors – but somehow, the sleepwalking is worse. It's in the listless pad of Korra's feet on the floorboards, pacing back and forth all night long; in her shallow breathing, her loosely hanging arms, clenched into tight little fists like a child's, in the way she doesn't say a single word – it's the way her eyes are rolled up so far back into their sockets that Asami can see the whites underneath. She can deal with night terrors, but _this –_ this scares her to death.

“Korra,” she whispers, lowering her arms. “Hey. Are you okay?”

The door hinge seems to groan as Korra pushes her way into the room; it is an eerie, hollow sound, one that makes Asami think of bones breaking. Korra hovers there; under her T-shirt, the outline of her ribcage stands out like stark white matchsticks in the shadowy half-light. A helpless rage suddenly explodes in Asami's chest, filling her like a hot acid, corroding her insides. She remembers Korra the way she first met her, vibrant and a little rude and brave, always so brave; to many people, she's just the Avatar, but to Asami, she'll always be that girl, that girl with a smile that splits her face in two like porcelain and a heart so big that it spills through the cracks like sunshine.

“Korra, it's me, Asami.” She tries again, speaking a little louder. “You're sleepwalking, sweetie. Come on, I'll take you back to your room.”

She reaches out and grips Korra's wrist, then pulls away when she feels the ridged surfaces of the scars there, like old unpleasant relatives turning up out of the blue to a party they weren't invited to. The marks from the chains are three years old now, but they still talk, with obscene cheerfulness in their voices: _Hello, Asami. You didn't forget about us, did you? Oh yes, we're still here. We'll_ always _be here. What happened to that girl you knew? The girl you loved – did you forget? That's quite alright._ _Every time you touch her, hold her hand, run_ _your_ _fingers over her wrists, we'll remind you, just in cas_ _e._

Korra makes a soft stifled sound, a whine of protest in the back of her throat. She raises her head up to the light, and Asami feels sweat break out on her forehead that has nothing to do with her meditation exercises: she can see the whites of Korra's eyes, but now there's a strange sheen to them, as if the lamplight has been captured inside the irises.

“Korra,” she says, louder still. She takes Korra's hand, wraps their fingers together. “Korra, it's okay, you're home, you're with me. Please, let me take you back to your room –”

And then Korra starts to shriek.

“N – _no_! NO! _Nnnnnnnnnn_ –”

She bucks and writhes in Asami's grip; her elbow strikes Asami in the mouth so hard she tastes blood. Asami holds onto her grimly, uselessly, her eyes screwed shut, fighting back tears; listening to the scars continuing their endless taunting: _you know what's coming, don't you?_ _B_ _ut you can't stop it. All you can do is watch – watch her, Asami, watch as she falls again_ _and curse your own foolish design,_ _just like the first time, that day on Laghima's Peak –_

The whites of Korra's eyes suddenly blaze with fiery light. A low rumbling sound echoes through the floorboards; the entire temple starts to shake, right down to its foundations. Asami hears several thuds behind her as the books she brought from the Sato estate are thrown from their shelves. The bed ricochets off the wall with a loud bang. The window shutters crash open; a gust of wind howls through the room like a vengeful beast. Korra's fingers slip from Asami's hand; her toes have lifted off the ground, the brightness of her white eyes gaining strength, hair rising and falling in the gale –

“ _Korra_!” she cries. “It's not real, whatever you're seeing, it's not real, Zaheer is not here, he's gone, he's in prison –”

The wind sweeps her off her feet, sending her sliding across the floor into the opposite wall. Asami can hear people moving within the temple, doors opening, running footsteps – Korra's risen almost to the ceiling now, her eyes still possessed by that terrible, wondrous white light – _god light –_ the word pops into Asami's head randomly and it's the only word to describe it, because there's nothing human in Korra's face now, nothing that resembles love, courage, mercy, or anything that Asami remembers about Korra the person – just the ruthless, primal power of the Avatar spirit, the feeling that the earth is about to open up beneath her and swallow her whole…

The door crashes open. A woman steps into the room, her arms raised towards Korra as if to pray. Asami doesn't recognise her at first – but then she sees the distinctive Water Tribe pelts, and the white hair that is plaited at the nape of the neck, with two strands that frame the face. For a full three seconds, Katara takes in the scene, with calm blue eyes; then she crosses the room and wraps her hand around Korra's wrist.

“What happened?”

Asami crawls onto her knees. Her back hurts like hell and her hair hangs limply in her face, stuck in sweat. She thinks she's winded; it takes her some time to draw in the breath speak. “She – she was sleepwalking,” she stammers. “Then – I don't know, it was all so quick – out of nowhere, she starts screaming, and then she – then she went into the Avatar State –”

“Defence mechanism,” says Katara; her tone is conversational, mild, as if they are discussing the weather. “The primary function of the Avatar State is survival. She thinks she's being attacked.”

“What? But she's asleep, how –”

“Have you ever heard of a condition called sleep paralysis?” Katara speaks over her; the calmness in her voice is almost maddening. “It's relatively new phenomenon, not widely diagnosed by many healers - sufferers find themselves trapped halfway between sleep and wakefulness, and they experience terrifying hallucinations. Demons that are not there. Invisible tormentors. Many sense a menacing presence in the room with them – often referred to as _the intruder._ Sleep paralysis, and all its variants – nightmares, night terrors, sleepwalking – can be, in many cases, caused by great trauma.”

She beckons to her. “Take her other hand. She needs to believe she's safe here.”

Shuddering, Asami does what she's told. Katara bends her knees slightly and together, they lower Korra to the floor. Asami does not realise that she's holding her breath until Korra's feet touch the rug. “You're safe,” she whispers, and then she reaches out and strokes Korra's hair. “Korra, listen to me. I know you can hear me. It's okay. You're safe now.”

The pain in her chest grows sharper as she watches the white light bleed slowly from Korra's face; her eyes dim, like a candle being slowly guttered out. Then she takes a soft, whistling breath, eyelashes fluttering, closing.

( _watch her_ )

“ _Shut up_ ,” Asami whispers.

“Has this happened before?” Katara asks her, apparently not noticing.

“Only recently. Before – before she left, it was just nightmares. She hasn't had any nightmares since she got back – now she just sleepwalks. I don't know what's worse – this, or the night terrors. I hear her sleeptalking sometimes, too, and she – she just sounds so – _lost._ ”

Katara sighs. “It's all part of the same nightmare, I think.” She leans over Korra and brushes the hair off her face, then plants a kiss on her temple. “Oh, you're much too young to dream of such awful things. Then again, you're much too young to have your livelihood taken away from you. But it's your cross to bear, the sacrifice you make for the good of the world. One child's life in exchange for billions. Many people would say it's a small price to pay for balance.”

She raises her head so that she is eye level with Asami.

“Where is her room? I think it's safe to take her back to bed now.”

Wordlessly, Asami stands up. Together they lead Korra out into the hallway, guiding her with both hands. Korra's eyes are still shut, and she drags her feet as she walks, and oh, how Asami hates that empty, empty sound – every step is like a nail driving through the back of her brain, boring deeper. When they reach Korra's room, Katara finally lets go, allowing Asami to guide Korra back into bed. Korra goes without much protest, moving like a puppet held up by invisible strings. Asami wonders what she can see behind her eyes.

“I came as soon as I heard she was back in Republic City.” Katara begins fussing over the bedclothes in a very motherly fashion, pulling them up under Korra's chin and making sure they cover her toes. “I had to see her with my own eyes. I was responsible for her physical therapy back in the Southern Water Tribe. When Tonraq told me she was missing, I – I thought I was going to lose my mind, I didn't know what to do –”

Her voice trembles slightly and she breaks off, gazing down at Korra's face.

“Did you ever resent it?” The question falls out of Asami's mouth before she can stop herself.

It's a selfish question, with selfish intentions. Asami has never been selfish; once upon a time, she never could have entertained such a thought. She's endured more than most girls her age will ever endure; these last three years have been the hardest since her mother's death. But she's always managed to build something from the ashes – that was her motto. Rebuild. Move on. Live to fight another day. Revamping Republic City's infrastructure to accommodate the new train lines, that was her way of rebuilding from Zaheer. Growing healthy young seeds from a field that had been previously drowned in blood. So, you see, she's got a good poker face – it's her game face, the one she wears with her red lipstick and her eyeshadow and it's picture perfect, not a hair out of place – beautiful, but also a lie nonetheless.

Katara regards her intently, frowning. Not because she's annoyed by the question, like Asami thought she would be; but because she is measuring her words. Asami stares right back, determined not to blink or break her gaze. She gets the feeling that Katara's sizing her up; those calm blue eyes, slightly greyer and darker than Korra's, seem to go right through her.

At last Katara says, “Don't you feel that?”

Asami blinks and it suddenly comes back to her – blood on her upper lip, seeping into her mouth. Her nose is bleeding. “Oh,” she says, numbly. Her voice seems to be coming from very far away – distant and not her own. She sees Katara come closer to take a look.

“I don't think it's broken. Should be an easy fix. I need to fill this up, anyway –” Katara gestures to the flask hanging off her hip, “Why don't you come downstairs with me, and we can take a look at it?”

She steps back out into the hallway. Asami hesitates a moment, her hand on Korra's shoulder – she doesn't want to leave her alone – but the blood is everywhere, dripping dangerously close to Pema's white sheets, so she reluctantly moves away from the bed and follows the old woman down the stairs. She can taste the blood in her mouth now – strong, coppery, metallic.

Bitter.

*

“You've got a rough couple of nights ahead of you.”

They're sitting in the empty kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. Asami's nose is tingling, like it's filled with pins and needles. It feels as though icy water is flowing through her nostrils, spreading into her frontal lobe. It's not the first time she's been healed with waterbending, but she doesn't think she'll ever get used to the feeling.

Katara's standing by the sink, refilling the water skin. She's removed all her furs, leaving nothing but her simple Water Tribe dress behind – whereas Asami has a cardigan wrapped around her shoulders, and a blanket warming her legs. Outside, the wind rattles restlessly at the windowpanes – another sound that Asami has come to loathe. That wind comes straight off Yue Bay and cuts right through the walls of the temple, leaving cold, draughty hallways in its wake – hallways that, in the dead of night, creak and groan and move and scream under your feet, as if there are spirits trapped in the walls, trying to get out.

“When I was much younger than you are now,” says Katara, “the idea of the Avatar gave me hope. Back then, the Southern Water Tribe was only a single igloo in the middle of a frozen tundra. That was the age before Satomobiles, before electricity, before telephones. We had practically no contact with the outside world. My father was fighting in the war. My mother was killed by the Fire Nation when I was a very small child. My brother and my grandmother and I, we were all alone. But I still had hope. My grandmother used to tell us all sorts of stories about the Avatar, master of the elements and harbinger of peace, which I latched onto. Sokka was the practical one, he never believed in any of it until he saw it with his own eyes…”

She drifts off, briefly lost in memories; then with a great shuddering of breath, she seems to bring herself back.

“One person destined to hold up the weight of the world's problems on their shoulders … I used to daydream about the day when the Avatar would return. It was one of those things that kept me going, especially in the winters when things got even tougher for the tribe. But then – then I saw Aang go into the Avatar State for the first time. It was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen. He was in so much rage and pain, and he was just a child. That was the first time I stopped to think about how unfair it all was – how _cruel_. I – I thought to myself, if that's the price he has to pay for ultimate power, then I couldn't bring myself to watch it happen. I know that sounds selfish, but –”

“But you loved him,” says Asami.

Katara gives her a soft, watery smile.

“And I always will. Sometimes it was a love that made me feel small – I mean, you're always going to feel small next to the Avatar, someone who has lived ten thousand different lifetimes and loved ten thousand different people–”

“It's not that,” interrupts Asami. “I don't resent that.”

A piercing whistle interrupts their conversation, and Asami quickly pushes her chair back to turn off the kettle. She fumbles in Pema's cupboards for tea bags – she has no idea what kind of tea Katara drinks, so she just settles for green. Her hands want to shake; she has to pause before picking up both saucers and heading back to the table. She can feel Katara's eyes on the back of her head the whole way.

“I heard about Zaofu,” she says quietly. “I have half a mind to fly a bison up there and break Suyin Beifong out of prison just so I can wring her neck. What was she thinking, asking Korra to fight on behalf of her people? She only just got all that poison out of her body, for goodness' sake.”

She moves away from the sink and sits down next to Asami, who slides a tea cup in her direction.

“Don't tell Korra I said that. I expect her confidence is already at an all-time low. But people need to understand that recovery is not a straight line, going up and up –”

Here Katara traces an invisible line in the air with her hand.

“It's more like a spiral. There are good days, there are bad days. You take one step forward, you go up –” she turns the line into a lazy circle that rises upwards, growing larger and larger, “then you slip over, take two steps back, and end up where you started.” She reverses the motion, lowering her hand to the tabletop. “It's hard. And some people never recover. Korra, Tenzin, Su – they're all going to have to swallow that pill at some point. The Avatar is only human, after all.

“Can you live with that?”

“Yes,” says Asami. She says it immediately, unflinchingly, without pause. _Of course,_ she wants to add. _What kind of question is that?_

Indeed, she's almost offended that Katara would ask her such a thing – as if _she_ is the one suffering here. Oh, she's had her fair share of suffering – suffering is practically her family legacy, the inheritance her father passed on to her at the tender age of eighteen when he tried to kill her – but not like Korra. Korra's suffering is unique in its awfulness. And it's still happening; the nightmare is still not over. Asami would not have offered to come with her to the Southern Water Tribe if she did not know that. Of course she accepts Korra all as she is, as Korra the person and Korra the Avatar, Korra with her night terrors and anxieties, her good days and her bad days – she's known it, accepted it for _years_. But she knows that Katara is just testing her; Katara, the only other person still living who has loved an Avatar apart from her.

“She'll sleepwalk again,” says Katara. “Tomorrow night, the night after that, all the nights after that. Don't try to wake her up if she does. Just take her hand and lead her back into her room. She'll come, as long as you talk to her, make her feel like she's safe with you.”

“It just makes me feel so – helpless,” Asami says. “I should be able to fix things – I've been fixing things my whole life, I can take anything apart and put it back together again and it'll be like brand new, but –”

“Korra's not a machine you can simply pull apart and upgrade,” Katara says sharply. “You must accept what has happened for what it is. I know you're a very intelligent woman. But trauma, especially the kind of trauma that has happened to Korra, cannot be understood or reasoned with. Not even by you.”

Asami looks down at her own cup of tea, still sitting untouched in her palms. She hates it – hates feeling so useless. _Watch her._ “Korra's sacrificed so much,” she whispers. “Her bending, her past lives, her legs – I keep wondering, what next, what is it this time the world wants to take from her? Because it takes a piece from her each time, I can tell. She keeps giving, and we keep taking. She tried to fight Kuvira, even when she shouldn't have, even when it almost killed her. She's just – she's just – so _selfless_ –”

“That's just in her nature. She will give, she will give, and she will give until she has nothing left. And you know why? Because her whole life, she has believed that her identity as the Avatar is the only one that matters.” Katara suddenly raises her cup to her lips, as if only just realising that it is there. “The fault is partly mine. We did all we could to keep her safe – reared her away from the world so that her enemies could never have the chance to hurt her – but, in doing so, we were never able to give her a truly _normal_ childhood.”

She looks at Asami and her face is suddenly so, so, sad and so much older.

“It's harmful,” she says simply. “So incredibly harmful. Korra would sacrifice herself to Kuvira if it meant she could be seen as an all-powerful Avatar again. I'm sorry. I wish I could have done more for her.”

“You did all you could.” Asami doesn't know what else to say; Katara is grieving, grieving for Korra, yes, but also for the man she loved and for her brother, too; her grief does not start with Korra, it spans years and years and years and maybe whole generations, before they were all born. There passes another silence between them, broken only by the distant scream of the wind in the eaves.

“You know what – you know what I heard Tenzin say once?” Asami says, her fingers ghosting around the rim of her own mug. “That in order to unlock the Avatar State, you have to remove all earthly attachment. In other words, by letting go of the people you love.”

Katara makes a disapproving noise, somewhere between a sigh and a tut. “I've never really agreed with that philosophy, to be honest. What makes a good Avatar? Sacrificing one's humanity for all the power in the world, or finding balance between one's humanity and one's Avatar spirit? This is why Korra _needs_ you, Asami – as much as you need her. Perhaps even more.”

Asami stares at her uncomprehendingly, perplexed, and a little frightened. “ _Me_? But – but I'm just a non-bender. It's like you said, I can't just _fix_ what's wrong –”

“Oh, no, you misunderstand me. You can't fight Korra's demons for her. I know you wish you could; but how can you save someone from themselves? You can't. You can love them and listen to them when they need you to. But the road to recovery, the _true_ road, is one that Korra must walk herself. Do you love her?”

Asami suddenly realises that her face is wet. Surprised, she reaches up and wipes her eyes, wipes her cheeks with her fists. Looks down at the tears on her fingertips dazedly; she half expected it to be blood again, seeping from all the old wounds, but the tears surprise her. This is not the first time she's cried over Korra. But it surprises her every time, when the tears come. The depths of her feelings open up before her like a dark chasm, and it scares her, looking into that darkness. She's afraid of what she'll find at the bottom, afraid of the possibilities.

Katara leans over and takes her hands, squeezing them gently with both her own. “Far too many people in this world are obsessed with power,” she says. “They worship the Avatar's power, viewing her only as a weapon to destroy their enemies, rather than a symbol of peace. In doing so, they forget the power of love and happiness that can be found, even on dark stormy nights like these. If you love her, then love her. Your love will not heal her – but it will help her remember how to be Korra, Korra the _person._ Then, and only then, can she learn how to be Korra the Avatar again.”

“I …” Asami bites down on her lip until she tastes blood again. “I don't know if I can give it to her – it might not be enough, but – but just for once, I'd like to give something back.”

She looks up and is shocked to see that Katara's eyes are shining with tears, too. “She's very lucky to have you, Asami,” she whispers, and then, suddenly and very quickly, she stands up and embraces her.

 

 

 

vii.

_3:35am_

 

 

 

Sometimes, Korra sleepwalks right into Asami's room, and Asami wakes up to find her standing over her bed. Other times, she wakes up to the sound of Korra's restless, searching footsteps echoing distantly through the temple, and finds her in the kitchen, or in the bathroom, curled up on the floor. Asami only does what Katara told her to do and leads Korra gently back to her room when this happens. There are no more outbursts – but one night, she pulls herself away from her books and her coffee for no discernible reason, apart from a deep, sinking knowledge in her gut that something is wrong. A glance out the window confirms her fears: she sees Korra moving through the temple grounds, heading in the direction for the beach.

The storm is even worse than it was three nights ago. Icy droplets of rain, as hard as steel, lash at her face, stinging. The wind is so strong it forces her to walk bent forwards, her head bowed, arms buried in the pockets of the cardigan she threw on before running out the temple. _She can't have gone far_ , Asami tells herself. _The island is surrounded by water. She can't have gone far._ But that doesn't stop the fear from worming its way into her belly; she's completely alone, with no light or firebending to guide her way, and it seems like the storm is determined to stop her from catching up with Korra, who is still a few yards ahead. Somewhere. Lost in the dark. Asami's foot catches on a rock and she goes down with a cry of pain, a sound that is quickly picked up by the wind and tossed into the night.

When she finally reaches the shoreline, she is nearly knocked off her feet by an enormous wave. The tide has come right up to the base of the cliff, and the swell is at least two metres high; if Asami hadn't jumped back in time, she would have been pulled right out into the middle of Yue Bay. Naturally, this does exactly zero to ease her fear.

“ _Korra_?” she screams.

To her right, the island stretches out towards the south, spearing the water like a bony finger. Asami squints helplessly into the rainy dark, her teeth chattering. Then – she spots it. A figure standing on the rocks, just below the headland. It's her, there's no mistaking it. Asami starts to pick her way across the rocks, her nightgown trailing in the saltwater.

When she finally reaches the place where Korra is standing, the clouds have parted before the full moon, flooding the entire bay with white light. Korra's eyes are completely open, glassy; she stares out at the water, her lips parted, completely unaware of the waves throwing themselves hungrily at the rocks just inches from her toes.

“Asami?” she murmurs, without even turning around. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” Asami says. “It's me.”

“How did I get here?” Korra asks, in a small, trembling voice. She sounds like a child, Asami thinks. A scared little child. “I opened my eyes and I was here. Am I dreaming?”

“No, you're not dreaming. You sleepwalked here.”

“And you followed me.”

“I had to. I was scared for you.” Asami holds out her hand. “Come home, Korra. Please.”

Silently, Korra turns around, lacing her fingers with Asami's. They start walking back up to the temple together, Korra leaning slightly on Asami's shoulders. She's heavy – dragging her footsteps again, leaving deep grooves in the sand. Her hands are freezing cold – that's what scares Asami the most. Korra's skin is _never_ cold; but now it's like touching the hand of a corpse.

“How did you know it was me?” she pants.

“I felt you. We all have roots. Have you ever been to the Banyan Tree?”

“No.”

“It's the largest tree in the world.” Korra's voice is slurred, dreamlike, as if she is drunk, or, still asleep. Deep down, Asami thinks that she is; caught, drifting, like a mote of dust floating on the wind, in that nowhere place between wakefulness and sleep. “It's so big, its roots spread everywhere. The Banyan Tree is the centre of all things. It connects us together. All of us. Like the chains. That's how I knew it was you. Even the vines in Republic City stretch all the way out to the Banyan Tree. I'll take you there someday. Then you can see for yourself. Everything is connected.”

“Right. Well. Let's just focus on getting back to the temple without being swept away.”

“You won't leave?”

“Of course not, Korra. I'm here to stay.”

“Okay. Don't leave me, Asami.”

“I won't.”

“Okay. That's good. I –”

“What?”

But Korra does not answer.

*

A quarter of an hour later, they make it back inside the temple. Korra goes straight to bed without another word, leaving Asami at her doorway. The room is very cold. The window is open wide enough for the breeze to disturb the curtains, causing them to rise and fall like ghostly wings in the moonlight. Shivering, Asami closes the latch, then she sits down on the edge of Korra's bed, taking care not to disturb its occupant. Truth be told, she's half-afraid to look down, just in case she sees the whites of Korra's eyes again, shining with that unearthly god light; but then a loud snore erupts from Korra's mouth, and she rolls over, wrapping an arm around her pillow. Asami opens her mouth and lets out all the breath she did not even realise she was holding in. 

The guest room is all the way down the other end of the hall, and she cannot stand the thought of leaving Korra alone after what happened earlier. This is nothing new; she's kept watch over Korra before. Tonight is different, though – ever since Korra returned to Republic City, things have been different between the two of them. Tonight, it all feels so fragile, like the moment is made of glass – Asami is afraid she'll let it slip through her fingers and watch it smash into a million glittering fragments. Then, of course, she'll wake up, and Korra will be gone. She doesn't really know what she's doing here, sitting on the edge of Korra's bed, but she does know that she never wants to let Korra out of her sight ever again.

From inside the pocket of her cardigan she takes out a packet of makeup wipes. Asami starts off with her eyes: running the wipes across her lids, pressing down slightly with the pads of her fingers then dragging downwards, removing her mascara and eyeshadow all in one go. Using circular motions, she massages off the foundation she's been wearing since eight o'clock the previous morning, and then, finally, sets about the arduous task of taking off her lipstick. The red colour is so pigmented it stains her lips crimson even after she takes it off. When she turns to throw the used wipes into the trash at the foot of the bed, Korra has opened her eyes. They're blue, not white – blue, the colour that Asami knows and loves and has always loved.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey, stranger,” Korra says. Her voice doesn't sound dreamy or slurred any more, only hoarse from sleep. She stifles a yawn with the back of her hand and pushes herself off the bed. “You closed the window?”

“Yeah, it was freezing in here.”

Korra raises an eyebrow at her. “You're joking, right?” She kicks the duvet off her legs and crawls to the edge of the bed; Asami moves over to make room for her.

“I've never understood that,” she says. “How you can go around in sleeveless shirts all the time in the middle of winter …”

“Please,” Korra snorts. “Republic City winters have _nothing_ on Water Tribe winters. You wouldn't last three seconds in the Northern Water Tribe, princess.”

“Definitely not. I'd turn into an Asami-popsicle and then you'd have to thaw me out with your firebending.”

Asami is pretty sure there's still some mascara collecting in the skin under her eyes, but slowly, surely, her exhaustion is getting the better of her. She starts undoing her hair: removing the elastic that keeps it off her face and brushing through it with her fingers, working out the kinks. Korra watches her through sleepy half-lidded eyes, as if mesmerised. Eventually Asami starts to feel a little self-conscious. “What?” she demands.

Korra's mouth folds into a pout. “It's not fair. You're beautiful even when you don't wear makeup.”

Asami throws a used makeup wipe at her; Korra yelps and shields her face with her pillow.

“For your eyes only,” she says. “Not even Mako's seen me like this.”

“Seriously?” Korra's expression grows disbelieving. “But you guys were together for like, three months! He _never_ saw you take it off?”

“Not if I could help it. At night, I'd wait till he was asleep to take it off, and then in the morning I'd always get up earlier so I could put it on before he woke up.” Asami chews on her lip. “Without it – I just feel so exposed. It's silly. It's like being naked in a room full of people. You're the only person who's ever – who's ever seen what's really underneath.”

Korra's brow furrows and Asami immediately regrets saying anything in the first place. She knows what she sounds like, a spoilt little rich girl, whose biggest insecurity – oh, the irony! – is her looks. It runs deeper than that – she remembers being eight years old and reading all the books she could find on bending and the physics behind bending and what exactly kind of magic it was that allowed some people to bend and denied others the skill; she remembers wondering, if she'd been born a firebender, would she have been able to fight off the men who killed her mom? Would she have been able to stop her father's madness before it was even born? Snuff out the cycle of suffering that was her family's legacy before it could corrupt the edges of her soul? She remembers – only eight years old and asking herself all these things as she lay in bed at night with her mother's photograph under her pillow, in the cool, methodical way that was hers and hers alone. She could not teach herself to bend, no matter how many books she read – but there were other books, books on mechanical engineering and astrophysics and biochemistry that she taught herself to read instead. She taught herself – and found that she was _good_ at it, this science stuff, working with her hands. Her father was overjoyed. _Just like your mother,_ he would say. Just like her mother – and Asami was sixteen, the youngest person in the world to receive a scholarship at the Ba Sing Se University of Engineering, the youngest _woman_ , and she remembers the first time she picked up the lipstick, her mother's lipstick that Yasuko always carried around in her purse and when she wasn't home Asami would always try putting it on her mouth, her hand shaking with nerves and childish excitement; and after her mother's death it became yet another thing she had to teach herself, yet another thing she had to perfect; _had_ to, there was no other way around it, because if she couldn't teach herself how to bend then she may as well teach herself everything else. That's it, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls – _what's Asami Sato's damage?_ I hear you say, well, _this_ is her damage – this is the whole sad story of how it all began and how she ended up as the person she is today. What a cliché. What a  _brat_ she must sound like, next to the Avatar.

“Like I said, it's silly,” she says, turning away. Of all the things to be confessing at 3:35am!

“It's not silly,” says Korra. “Look, I don't get makeup, alright – I've never been a girly girl like you – but I get why you wear it. It's – it's like, _your_ thing. And you wear it, because reasons – like –” she hesitates for a split second, then keeps going – “if you wear it because you're insecure, then that's okay. If you wear it because you like it, then that's okay too. It's not my business to judge. I like that you make it _your_ thing, you know? Like, I don't get it – I think you're beautiful without it – but still, it wouldn't be _you_ without it. Am – am I making any sense at all?” she asks, a note of helplessness in her voice.

Asami laughs. “Yes, Korra. Thank you.” She deliberates on it, then says, “I think I needed to hear that.”

“Asami, I'm happy to tell you that you're beautiful every day if you like. Three times a day, if that's what you need.” Korra flashes her a charmingly lopsided grin. “The Avatar is here to help.”

“Oh, stop it. If I recall correctly, we've already agreed that you're just as beautiful.”

Korra stops then, her eyes going totally blank. Then a slow, small smile tweaks her mouth back up at the corners. “Oh,” she says, “I'd forgotten about that. Yeah, that's right. The day you did my makeup.”

“That was a good day, wasn't it?”

“Yeah. We were all so young back then. I thought I knew exactly who I was, but I really had no idea.” Korra chuckles. “I was such a _shit_.”

“I was a shit as well,” protests Asami. “I kissed Mako behind your back. Remember?”

Korra groans. “I don't _want_ to remember. Seriously. Nothing against you – just – that whole love triangle with Mako is something I want to erase from my mind, like permanently. I like us much better now, you know – as friends.”

“I like you, too,” says Asami, without thinking.

She suddenly stops dead, realising how that sentence sounded coming out of her mouth. _Fuck._ Her heart starts to beat very fast in her chest, and then – _fuck!_ – she remembers that Korra can probably sense those kinds of things with her earthbending. Briefly, terrifyingly, she realises she doesn't know what to say; her mind flails and fumbles for the controls. Finally she manages to grasp the edges of her poker face, sliding it back on – giving Korra a smooth, tight-lipped smile – the kind of smile that she wears in front of the press when they ask her about her father. It is unbreakable, that smile, she's found. Reliable. “I'm sorry, that came out wrong,” she says, in a voice of false cheeriness. “I meant – I meant that I like you as a friend, too.”

“Nice to see we're on the same page,” says Korra. She holds up her hand. “Hi-five.”

Asami doesn't want to touch Korra's hand because she knows she would like the sensation too much – the feeling of Korra's fingers willingly exploring her own is simply too much to bear, too much to hope for. But Korra, always the stubborn one, does not lower her hand – so Asami reluctantly (but not too reluctantly) gives in. They stay like that for a brief moment – hands touching, dangerously close to _lingering_ – then Asami pulls away, fleeing for the safety of her cardigan pockets.

“I'm sorry about all that," Korra says. "For kissing Mako and hurting you. It was really messed up. I was such a selfish b–”

Asami rolls her eyes. “It's water under the bridge, Korra, really, I don't care –”

“ _I care_ ,” Korra cuts her off fiercely. “I just – you're such a great person, a great friend, and I'll always feel guilty for treating you like that. You deserved better. I guess what I'm trying to say is, I'm really happy – and grateful – that you're still friends with me. Even after all the hurt that I put you through.”

“What hurt? Mako and I were only together for three months, I mean, I was pissed off when I found out, but it's not like I _loved_ him or anything –”

“I'm not talking about _that_ hurt,” says Korra quickly. “Well, I am, but there's other hurt – I left for three years, and I only wrote to you once…”

“ _No._ No. Don't you _dare_ apologise for that,” Asami snaps. The uncharacteristic harshness in her voice seems to startle Korra; she sees those baby blues widen and her head jerk back as if she's been shocked. “I mean it. You don't owe me any apologies. Not for that. I – I understood. It was never about me. I just wanted you to be happy. I still do.”

Korra just stares at her, her mouth hanging open slightly. She looks – sad? Grateful? No. Not that. Her gaze has become open and intent, searching. It's like looking into a very bright, bright light; every instinct is screaming at Asami to look away, because that light hurts to look at. _D_ _o you love her?_ she hears Katara ask, in the back of her brain. The answer to that question is not something that Asami can quite say out loud. Not just yet. It's buried deep, and she's afraid of digging it up, brushing the dust off, breaking open the locks. Opening the lid and seeing it with her own eyes, that which she has kept buried all this time because it was too painful to bear otherwise.

She hears Korra swallow audibly – and then she leans forward, so close Asami can see each of her eyelashes, the freckles on the tip of her nose, and those two dead old scars on her cheekbones, the ones she got from fighting Vaatu during Harmonic Convergence.

(If she were to lower her eyes a few inches lower, she would see other scars, ones that are still as raw as the day they were made, crawling across her wrists with terrible vitality. They _want_ her to look; their voices are filled with mockery, like a flock of nasty children laughing and hissing insults at her behind their hands).

Korra swallows again, wetting her lips with her tongue – and now Asami's attention becomes so focused on her lips that she does not quite hear what Korra says after that.

“P-pardon?” she says, jumping out of her reverie.

“I said, _you_ make me happy,” says Korra. She searches Asami's face, her eyebrow quirked upwards uncertainly. “You know that, right?”

For only the second time in her life, words have failed Asami. Her brain, that smooth, efficient, _relentless_ machine, has suddenly stalled, engines gone cold.

“I have a lot of things to be thankful for,” Korra goes on. “I have you. I have my family. I have Naga. Tenzin. The airbender kids. Mako. Bolin. I never forgot you, you know. I may have only sent you one letter – but I thought about you everyday. When things got hard, I'd read your letters. I think that's what – that's what kept me tethered here. That's why I didn't just disappear off the Earth completely. The thought of you. Even in my dreams, you were there. Calling my name. It – it – hey, you okay?”

Asami looks at her, really looks at her – _she's so thin –_ and her eyes automatically ghost over the scars on her wrists. She wonders how deep those scars run – how bad they are behind closed doors. It's like looking into a black and bottomless river in the middle of the night – she could throw a pebble to the bottom and never even see where it sinks, or the bubbles it makes as it goes down. Korra asks her if she's all right, even puts her hand on her shoulder, saying _hey, hey,_ as if she's trying to shake her awake. But wait, no, that's all wrong, because Asami _is_ awake, and Korra's the one – _Korra –_ Asami looks at her and all of a sudden she's breaking up inside. _Oh no,_ she thinks wildly. _No, not now. Dammit. Not now, please, not now._ It's looking at the scars on her wrists that set her off, and for the millionth time she curses herself for being a non-bender, for her own foolish design. “No,” she whispers. Her vision starts to blur. “I – shit –”

“Hey,” says Korra again, and she takes Asami's face in both her hands, like she's something precious – wipes the tears from her eyes with her thumbs. Asami weeps freely, which isn't something that happens often – she weeps and the whole time she tries to stop herself from crying, overwhelmed by anger and shame at her own selfishness – this is all wrong, she promised Katara, but instead Korra is holding her, Korra is pushing the hair off her face and helping her dry her eyes and she can't stop it, _just stop it._ She feels Korra's arms close gently around her shoulders, guiding her down onto the bed so that Asami is enveloped in her fresh, clean scent and her head is resting on the place where Korra's heart is, thundering in her chest, slow and ponderous but wonderfully loud and reassuring in its power, its firmness.

“Sorry,” she whispers finally. “Can I – can I just stay here, with you? Just for a bit. Then I'll go back to my room.”

“You can stay,” says Korra. She pulls the blankets back up over them both, then throws one arm around Asami's waist and strokes a lock of hair away from her ear. Then she nestles her nose into the crook of her neck, breathing in deeply. The sensation tickles slightly; Asami giggles.

“D-did you just _smell_ me?”

“I'm just checking,” says Korra. “You still smell like Asami. Same perfume?”

“Of course.”

“I know as much about perfume as I do about makeup,” yawns Korra, “but I've always loved that one.” She plays with Asami's hair, curling it around her fingers then watching it fall down again. Then she leans over and places a light kiss on her cheek. “I missed you.”

Asami takes hold of her hand, the one that's wrapped around her waist, and brings it up to her mouth. “I missed you, too,” she says. “Are you sure it's okay? I don't want to keep you awake –”

“You won't. For some reason, I feel – safer, if you're here. No more nightmares.”

And that is the end of that. Asami's lips leave a red imprint on Korra's hand, a remnant of the colour she was never quite able to get off with the makeup wipe. Korra studies the mark closely for a moment, her expression rather solemn; she doesn't try to remove it, either. Instead, she lowers her head back onto the pillow they're now sharing and closes her eyes. Asami watches her, her fingers tracing the inside of Korra's wrist – thinks briefly of asking Korra what she was going to say before she ruined it by crying – thinks briefly of what would happen if she'd kissed her on the mouth, instead of settling for her hand. Neither of these options feel appropriate, though – it's another moment spun from glass, and the slightest tremor in her hands could break it. So, instead, she just closes her eyes.

 

 

 

viii.

_the other side_

 

 

 

A spear of bright, white light pierces Asami's eyelids. For a moment she's confused – why is the room so cold? – she opens her eyes blearily and turns her head. The bit of pillow next to her is empty.

“Korra?” She jerks upwards, staring around with wide, frightened eyes.

“I'm over here,” says Korra. She's sitting in front of the open window, warming her face in the morning sun. From the looks of it, it's just after sunrise. Asami shivers as the sea breeze lifts her hair from her shoulders.

“Can't sleep?” 

Korra shakes her head. “When I was on the road, I lost all track of time, so I kept waking up earlier and earlier. When you're up at this hour, that's when the world is at it's most beautiful – the most quiet.” She pauses. “It's good for meditating, the sunrise. It helps me think.”

“Wow,” Asami says. “Never thought I'd hear you speak so highly of getting up early. The Korra I knew used to think mornings were evil.”

Korra chuckles. “Yeah, well, the real reason I woke up was because I was overheating. Spooning you is like spooning a space heater. That was a terrible, terrible lack of foresight on my part.”

“So you decided to open the window and turn this place into an igloo?”

“Oh, I'm sorry. Are you cold, princess?”

“I'm freezing my tits off,” grumbles Asami, drawing the blankets to her chest.

Grinning, Korra moves away from the window and tugs the sheets off her legs. “I can't believe you stole _all_ the blankets!” she exclaims, laughing. “And you're wearing a nightgown, plus those ridiculous socks – seriously?”

“What's wrong with my socks?” Asami demands, wriggling her toes. The socks are thick woollen ones Pema knitted for her, decorated with stripes of pink and purple. She yanks the sheets out of Korra's grip. “We aren't all as amazing as _you_ , Korra – I'm afraid I don't possess powers of self-heating.”

“It's _not_ that cold, is it? And you've been living in Republic City longer than me. You of all people should be used to it.”

“How about we compromise,” suggests Asami. “You can keep the window open – but only if _you_ come back to bed and keep me warm yourself.”

“Deal.” Korra scoots in behind her, placing her arm back around her waist, resting it on her belly. It's kind of an awkward position – there's a multitude of blankets and sheets and even Asami's cardigan between them, creating a barrier between her body and the breeze now stealing through the room – which is perfectly balmy in _Korra's_ opinion, but she's not complaining. And neither is Asami, she notices.

“Monkeyfeathers, you _are_ cold,” she mumbles in Asami's ear. “I can feel you trembling through the blankets. Are you sure you don't want me to –”

“No, stay. It's – it's getting better, with you here.” Asami's quiet for a moment, then she says, “How does that – work, by the way? Is it the same as what Lin can do with her feet?”

It takes Korra a moment to realise what she's talking about. “Oh! You mean, the seismic sense thing? Yeah, kinda. Toph taught it to me when I was in the swamplands. I'm not as good as she is – no one is – but I'm getting the hang of it. Have you ever heard of positive and negative jing?”

Asami nods. “Jing is an expression of chi. Firebenders favour positive jing in their fighting styles – they're all aggression and offensive manoeuvres, whereas airbenders use negative jing to evade and avoid attacks. And waterbenders use both positive and negative jing to turn their opponent's force against them.”

Korra smiles at her. “Very good. But there's another form of jing – that's neutral jing. It's the key to earthbending – standing on your feet and facing your opponent face on, listening to the way they move so you know the perfect moment to strike. Toph is a master of it. I did more listening and waiting in that swamp than – well, more than I think I've ever done in my whole life. She taught me how to use the roots of the Banyan Tree to connect with the rest of the world – and that's how Jinora found me, in the end.”

“And that's how you found Wu?”

“Yeah. It's like seeing but not with your eyes. Seeing with earthbending? Yeah. Maybe that's a more accurate way of putting it.”

“It sounds almost like a psychic power,” Asami says.

“More like intuition. I felt you, too, you know. I think I mentioned that.” Korra's voice grows very quiet.

“You did – and now I kind of understand what you meant. I think – this sounds really weird, don't laugh – I think I felt you too. When you were thinking of me, it was almost like – like I could _hear_ you.”

Korra doesn't laugh. She only holds Asami tighter, pulls her closer to her chest so that their bodies are practically touching through the blankets.

“I was sleepwalking,” she whispers. “All those years, I was like a woman sleepwalking, Asami. I was trapped in that chair, but I wandered, all the same. Then I left. And I didn't realise – I didn't _realise_ – I just wanted to disappear – but, after a while, I couldn't even remember my own name. I didn't just disappear, I went off the map completely. You know when I try to remember the exact details, nothing comes to me? The only part I can remember fully is leaving for the Southern Water Tribe – and then, fast forward to meeting Toph in the swamp. Everything else is – hazy. Like one of those dreams you wake up from and you can't remember what you were dreaming about or why it made you feel so empty inside. Coming back to Republic City feels like waking up again –”

She taps the side of her head. “Now I'm standing on the other side, everything's slowly getting clearer. Sharper. But I have to remind myself that I'm still here. So I listen. I listen and I can hear you – your heart rate, your breathing, I can count how many times you blink and I listen to the movement of your insides, the rush of your blood – ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump, that's your heart, ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump.” She leans upwards and raps her knuckles on the wall slowly, gently. Then she stops, letting her arm fall. 

Asami twists around and takes the hand that Korra used to knock on the wall, pulling it around her waist – under the blankets this time, not above them, so that Korra's touching her, feeling her soft, fluttery warmth – warmth like a sunrise. “I remember dreaming of you,” Asami breathes, as their bodies fold closer together, “you'd hold out your hands and you'd call my name, too. It was always awful waking up from that. I'd open my eyes and it was like you'd just left the room…”

“Asami, if you – if you don't mind,” Korra begins; she sounds oddly formal and Asami nearly laughs until she hears the stutter in Korra's words – Korra is _nervous_. “I'd like to try something. You can say no, if you want to. I'm terrified of it all being another dream – if I woke up right now and I was alone, I'd go crazy again, I really would –”

Asami kisses her.

It's only for a split second: her lips brush softly over Korra's, then she pulls away just as quickly, drawing her hands up to her mouth.

“I'm sorry,” she says abruptly. “I-I didn't know what else to do – I just wanted to show you that this is real, Korra, that _I'm real –_ ”

Korra closes her eyes.

“It's okay,” she says. “I was going to ask you if I could kiss you, but – you beat me to the punch.”

“I – oh.” Asami gapes at her then, as if unsure she heard her correctly. A second later she recovers. “Still, I should have asked –”

A quiet gust of laughter leaves Korra's mouth. “Relax. It's okay. Really. You can do it again.” Her eyes suddenly grow wide and pleading. “Please, Asami. Show me.”

She's scared that Asami won't – then the bed creaks as Asami shifts her body forward and her lips find Korra's a second time. This kiss is deeper than the first – but only a little. There's powerful want and need and lust simmering just below the surface of that kiss, and Korra can feel Asami trembling in her hands; she's scared too, but the want behind all that fear is stronger – so strong it's intoxicating. Korra wants to draw it all out, like nectar, to make Asami come undone completely – so she opens her mouth.

And Asami – Asami _groans_ and shivers against her, pressing forwards into her mouth with hot desire. Korra flicks her tongue experimentally over Asami's teeth and bites down softly on her lower lip; Asami's fingers tangle desperately in her hair, and it seems that the heat is everywhere; seeping through her belly, sliding down her thighs, down, down, pooling between their bodies. Asami pins Korra to the bed gently with her legs and kisses her all over. Her long hair trails down Korra's chest as she drags her lips across the freckles on Korra's navel, sucking on each one. Korra cannot breathe. She watches, stunned, as Asami's lips creep lower, brushing against the inside of her thigh. Something inside her snaps; pain lances through her chest like volts of electricity, spreading through her lungs, turning into a scream –

“Asami,” she gasps, “ _Wait._ ”

Asami freezes at once. “Korra?”

Korra's breath comes out ragged and shallow; beads of sweat roll down her face. Her eyes are wide and staring, pupils dilated, filled with sudden terror.

“I – I –” She stares at Asami helplessly, feeling nausea claw at her throat. “I'm sorry. I can't –”

“Do you want to stop?”

Korra shakes her head. “No. I want to –”

Gently, in one smooth movement, she leans upwards and wraps her leg around Asami's waist, flipping her over that she's resting her back on the mattress and her hair is splayed out across the pillow.

Asami raises a sly eyebrow at her. “Oh, I see how it is. You prefer being on top?”

Korra actually blushes. “ _No._ I don't know what I prefer,” she mumbles. “It's just – I have – good days, mostly – but there are things – that – that set me off.” She exhales, blowing her hair out of her face. “Zaheer took all my control away from me. I _need_ this, Asami – just once. Please. We can – try other things in the future –”

This time, Asami does laugh, but it's not an unkind sound. “Interesting choice of words. Are you implying that I'm going to end up in your bed again, Avatar Korra?”

Korra's face seems to fall. “I – sorry! I just assumed – you kissed me first –”

Asami smiles at her gently. “I'm only teasing, you dork.” She leans up and plants a soft kiss on her temple. “Where do you want me?”

Korra visibly relaxes. “Right where you are,” she says. “Actually – can I take this off?”

Asami's breath catches as Korra's fingers tug at the sash of her nightgown. “Y-you can do whatever you –”

She trails off with a quiet moan as Korra slips the nightgown off one shoulder and kisses the bare skin there.

“I'll take that as a yes,” Korra smiles into her neck.

“You're still a shit.”

“And you're still the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.” Korra runs her finger over the line of Asami's collarbone, gleaming like marble in the hazy morning light. “Seriously, how are you even _real_?” she demands, looking at her incredulously.

Asami only laughs, but the sound is slightly breathless, and her hips buck slightly as Korra continues to drag her finger down, circling a nipple. Asami gasps, whispers something unintelligible; her back arches off the bed, one hand digging into Korra's hip so hard it hurts. Korra gives her nipple a tight squeeze, delighting in the way Asami's mouth drops open in silent pleasure with every one of her ministrations. When she leans down and finally takes one breast in her mouth, Asami's rolling hips nearly send her flying off the bed.

“Holy _fuck_ Korra, you're driving me crazy. Can't you just fuck me already?”

“But I'm just getting started,” Korra protests. (This is true power, she thinks. Hearing Asami swear like that – rough and unladylike and so very un- _Asami –_ is one thing, but realising that she's the cause of it, is another). 

“I just want you inside me,” she murmurs, sliding her legs around the small of Korra's back. “I've wanted this for so long, and you –”

Korra straightens up and cuts her off with a lingering kiss. “I want this too,” she says. Asami's feet are pressing urgently into her back now, inviting her forwards, but she still resists. “Have you – have you ever done this before? With a girl, I mean.”

“I –” Asami stops short, then says hesitantly, “there was _one_ girl. Beginning of last year. I can't even remember her name. It was nothing serious – we were only – only _together_ , in a manner of speaking – twice.” She licks her lips, then says, “I'm sorry. You were gone, and I didn't know if you were going to come back…”

“Sssh. No, it's okay. I'm not mad. Really. Honestly, I'm surprised there weren't more. I thought people would be queuing up to have a chance with you.”

“Even if there was a queue I wasn't ever interested,” says Asami quickly. “But there was that one girl. I feel like I should be honest with you about it. I don't want there to be any secrets with us.”

Korra takes her hand and kisses it.

“Thank you for being honest with me. And I never expected you to wait for me. You had your own life. I would never want to hold you back from that. You don't owe me anything.”

“I didn't kiss you because I felt that I owed you, Korra.”

“I know.” Korra's hand drifts downwards, brushing against the line of her underwear; Asami's legs automatically spread outwards in anticipation. “I want to try something. I don't know if it'll work, but if you want me to stop – promise me you'll say so, okay?”

Asami chuckles darkly – a sound that is slightly rough and jagged around the edges – and oh, Korra can feel the heat creeping between her legs now, knowing that Asami is as turned on as she is. “Believe me when I say this,” she growls, “don't _ever_ stop.”

She fists her hand in Korra's hair and yanks, pulling her mouth back down to hers. Korra thinks that Asami tastes like salt and springtime – thinks that maybe she might be crying again, but it's hard to tell, in the ever shifting shadows flashing across the bed at intervals as the sun makes its slow progress above the horizon to greet the world. It occurs to her that maybe Asami was lonely the last three years, maybe so lonely it became a part of her, like when you have a cold sore on the inside of your mouth that you keep worrying at with your tongue, worrying and worrying and worrying until it re-opens and starts to bleed again, but she does not have the heart to ask. She knows about loneliness – knows it's harder to admit you're lonely than being alone. So she does not ask – she just kisses Asami as deeply as she can muster. Kisses her lips, her cheek, her eyelids, her hands. Asami jerks underneath her, but Korra does not stop; she can hear it now, Asami's heartbeat, crashing as ferociously as the waves that crash at the headland beneath the temple. She zeroes in on that sound with razor sharp precision, listening closely. Her hand slides lower. Asami's eyes have grown very large; they look large enough to drown in. (What wonderful way to go that would be). Korra pushes with her hand, pushes and pushes until she feels something give a little; Asami hisses between her teeth, but it's not a pained sound, just hungry, full of lust.

“Oh, _Korra_...”

It only takes a moment for Asami to realise what Korra is doing – using her seismic sense to feel her way across her body, mapping out every reaction to her touch, filing and storing this information away for later. Asami does not have to tell her what she likes – Korra is already listening. It's incredible, and she would say so – if she were able to form words at that very moment. Internal error. Korra's quietly inquisitive hands seem to have fried her nerve endings.

Finally she manages to gasp out, “Korra, I –”

“I know,” Korra says again. She pushes harder, deeper and Asami leans into her; they become one shadow in that tiny single bed. It's a sight that becomes impossible to look away from: Asami twisting and falling apart under her touch, Asami with her hair stuck to her face by sweat, of Asami moaning into her ear, moaning into her mouth, of her nails ripping Korra's shoulders to shreds, of her huge, dark eyes, the slivers of gold in them glinting like precious metals embedded in a lakebed; she watches as Asami falls apart completely underneath her and Asami does not have to say it because Korra already knows, Korra can read it in the sound of her heart and on the shape of her red lips, falling open and forming those three silent but unmistakable words, over and over: _I love you, I love you, I love you._


End file.
